Denouement
by CleverDucky
Summary: When Altair's influence becomes a more irrefutable force, it's all Desmond can do not to lose his head.


Denouement

**oOo**

The more he lied inside the Animus, riffling through Altair's memories like a loaded gun, the more Desmond began to realize this wasn't a game anymore. Sure, he was under no illusions in the beginning, he had been _kidnapped _for chrissake; it wasn't all joy and gumdrops. But it had become somewhat of a routine, like a hobby, for him to jump on the machine and hang on for the dangerous, bumpy ride that was his ancestor's life.

To be honest, it was interesting. Being able to see what Altair saw and hear what he heard--but it was when Desmond began to feel what Altair felt and think for split moments in time that he was _actually_ Altair that all pretenses of a joke vanished and left a cold sense of foreboding and anxiety in its wake.

It was when he found himself lying in bed wondering how he would attack the Templars, when he felt like he was being watched and plotted against, when he started feeling spurts of panic shoot through him every time Lucy or Warren walked behind his back and the urge to slide out a blade that wasn't strapped onto his arm slapped him in the face that Desmond knew he was getting in too deep.

Sometimes he could swear it was Altair speaking in his head instead of himself, that it was Altair influencing every move he made, and Desmond would freeze, trying to catch that ghost of his ancestor in the back of his mind only to have it slip through his fingers.

"Subject Sixteen, what happened to him?" He had asked one day, desperate for some kind of answer for what he already knew was happening to himself and maybe some guidance on how to fight it. Lucy hesitated, he noticed with the sharp eyes of Altair; not his own, and he shook his head harshly.

She turned her head very slightly toward him, glancing at him quickly with one cool, assessing eye. "You already know what happened to him."

"I only know what you told me, and let's face it, you people aren't exactly the epitome of generosity when it comes to something I ask."

"He went mad." she said after a moment and turned back to clicking away at her keyboard.

He scoffed. "That much I gathered." And in the back of his head, a voice frighteningly deep and not his own whispered, _She's going to dance around it._

Desmond found himself agreeing, able to read the signs as Lucy's stiff shoulders faced him.

"The Bleeding Effect, it became too much for him. It drove him crazy and, in the end," she sighed and her voice turned to stone. "He died."

"That's going to happen to me, isn't it." It wasn't a question.

She glanced at him, this time her eyes holding an emotion he couldn't begin to decipher, her fingers momentarily stilling over the keys before resuming as she turned away. "Get some rest, Desmond. We have a long day tomorrow."

"Look, I--"

"Mr. Miles, what are you still doing up, hm? Can't have you slacking off tomorrow, can we--not when we are this close. Your room, if you please." The loud, intrusive, and mocking voice of Warren seemed to echo off of every surface in the room and Desmond winced, body tensing as if ready to spring.

Desmond turned a baleful look on the older man, unable to know that for a moment, just a split second, his eyes flashed a tawny gold before melting back into their normal chocolate brown. It went unnoticed in the stillness of the suddenly chilly room.

Back in his room, after hearing the finality of the door slide shut and lock behind him, Desmond paced with a new found fervor. He wouldn't die, he wouldn't go mad like the last poor soul did. He _couldn't_. It was absurd to even think for a moment he would waste away in this...this _prison _for a cause he wasn't even sure he knew of.

Abstergo would not be his grave.

_Then fight back. Nothing is true, everything is permitted._

But that is a double-edged sword.

_You use it at _your _will._

It can be twisted.

_Only if you allow it._

Desmond suddenly blinked his eyes, having been unaware that he was still moving while having the conversation in his head. A sharp sting in his hand grabbed his attention and he held up his left hand, unclenching his fingers, and stared in disbelief at the piece of glass that had been cutting in his flesh.

Little rivulets of blood leaked across his palm, creating a violently red intricate web that was mesmerizing and disturbing all in the same. Swallowing, he looked back up and found himself looking at his shattered bathroom mirror, his face distorted and jagged in the broken pieces still intact.

Had he done this...?

_They are going to kill you. _

The panic stirred deep in his belly.

_Are you just going to let them?_

No. No, no. _No!_

He felt very clearly the jolt of power and adrenaline, the strongest instinct of survival, the blatant disregard for anything and everything except living. He felt like a cornered animal. He felt that if he wanted, he could slide out his hidden blade and escape.

But it didn't last, it never did. This...side affect, this Bleeding Affect, whatever the hell it is, never lasted long, and quite suddenly Desmond felt foolish standing in his bathroom in front of a broken mirror with a dagger-sharp shard of glass clutched in his hand.

With a snarl, he slapped down the glass and went back out to the bedroom, fuming that he had allowed Altair's influence to get the better of him. For a minute, he actually believed he could escape with that pathetic weapon.

_Survive. Only survive._

I will.

_Will you?_

Yes.

It was when he was lying in his bed that Desmond realized the position he was in. Completely at the company's mercy like some defenseless baby. It left a bitter taste in his mouth and he agreed wholeheartedly with Altair (at least, what he thought was Altair in his head) that it was degrading and pathetic.

And it would have to change.

But he was only Desmond Miles, not the master assassin Altair Ibn-La'Ahad. He as a bartender being used for his memories that just happened to be attached to something they were desperately seeking. He was a tool, but so was Altair.

He didn't like being used. At all.

_Don't let them._

There wasn't much he could do, stripped of everything as he was, but there was one thing Desmond knew. He sure as hell wasn't going to make this easy for them.

* * *

**A/N: **_It's actually kinda fun writing the Bleeding Effect with Altair have more and more influence over Desmond. _


End file.
